


Wash This Blood from my Hands

by ContessaQuill



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Fellowship of the Ring, Gandalf Ships It, Tenth Walker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-01 19:49:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15150554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ContessaQuill/pseuds/ContessaQuill
Summary: Eliana is a bounty hunter hired by Saruman to capture the Ring-bearer. The job was easy enough. Take the hobbit to Isengard, get rich, move on to the next job. Of course, there was one thing she hadn't reckoned with: the infuriating, scruffy-looking human ranger who makes everything infinitely more complicated than it had any right to be.





	1. Deadman's Dike

**Author's Note:**

> I was feeling original today, so why not write the 12937479th Tenth Walker fic literally nobody has asked for. That's still a thing in 2018, right? It's been 15 years and I'm still obsessing over Lord of the Rings. 
> 
> This fic is entirely self-serving. It will mostly follow the movies. There will be tropes. There will be stuff that would make Tolkien writhe in his grave. I will try my best to limit descriptions of every single article of clothing my OC wears. If you're looking for a fic where Aragorn is often shirtless, you found it. 
> 
> My chapters are usually around 3K, so the first two chapters are shorter than normal. I split them because I wanted to show off the two edits I made. Lol.
> 
> Anyway, have fun, kids!

The pipe smoke hung in thick plumes over the taproom, stinging Eliana’s eyes. 

Hidden in a shadowy alcove at the back of the room, she nursed a pint, her eyes taking in the decrepit tavern— the spill of drink, the slurs of drunken laughter, and the ruffians that had fled from the hailing rain outside like gutter rats, gambling away the coin they had previously stolen from travelers on the North-South-Road. No man with any decency left in him ever came to the Deadman’s Dike, as the people of Bree called it. No one but thieves and murderers and those who lived so far beneath the law that the law had forgotten about them. 

Someone like her. 

A man with bloodshot eyes had pulled a knife on another. They could beat each other bloody for all she cared. She gulped down the murky, brown soup that sloshed in her cup— and gagged. The ale tasted like piss here. Eliana pulled her hood low over her brow. The men didn’t know that there was a woman among them. An elf. They would likely cut off her ears, before they raped her. 

The doors swung open, carrying a gust of icy rain and muddy boots inside. She knew who it was by his limping walk. She pulled her dagger free of its sheath under the table, ready to cut his throat if need be. After all, she’d had dealings with him in the past. Billy Ferny was the sort of bastard who would sell his own mother if the it earned him a visit to Bree’s whorehouse. Ferny shook out his stringy flaxen hair like a wet dog. His sneer revealed teeth stained black from the tobacco he chewed. He flicked two silver penny onto the bar counter. 

“Another round for me and me old friend o’er ‘ere,” he called in direction of the barkeep, in the rough brough of the Bree-folk. Eliana glared at him as he slunk toward her table, two tankards in hand. By the Valar, she wasn’t foolish enough to drink something that been in reach of Ferny’s greasy hands. It would be just like him to poison her over some measly coin.  


“I’m not your friend, Billy. You paid someone to tell me that you had a job for me,” she said through gritted teeth and drummed her fingers on the table. “So what’s the job? And no more favors. I’m all out of those.”  


He grumbled under his breath—something about _bloody elves_ and _could be balls-deep in some wench by now_. 

“Oy, easy there, dearie. I promise ya, ‘tis worth yer time,” he said and downed his ale in one big swing, letting out a satisfied burp. “ Ye see, I’ve been selling information to some folks, South Downs—brigands from the south, me thinks. Nothin’ fancy, mind ya. Fishwives’ tales. Their lot is working for this bloke— Sharkey, they calls him. He wants one o’ those tiny folks. Goes by the name o’ Underhill. Boss is willing to pay a lot o’ gold for it, too.”  


“Tiny folks,” she turned the words over. “You mean halflings? What could this Sharkey possibly want with them?”  


Ferny picked at the dirt under his nails. “Bah! What do I care? I’m not gettin’ paid for askin’ questions, now, do I? And ye shouldn’t either. Tis bad for business, it is.” His expression turned shrewd. “They’ll pass through Bree in a three days. Are ya in or no?”  


“What’s the bounty?” She asked.  


“More jewels than ye could wear around that bonnie neck o’ yers.” He grinned. Catching his wrist before he could grab the wisp of black hair that had fallen from her braid, she applied pressure.  
“Aright, aright, lass. Yer bloody ruthless, ya ken?” Ferny whined, squirming like a weasel.  


“Keep your hands to yourself and you get to keep them,” Eliana snarled, dropping his wrist with a sound of disgust. “Whereto shall I deliver the hobbits once I captured them?”  


“Isengard.”  


She arched her brow, a frown creasing her forehead beneath the gray folds of her hood. _Angrenost_ , the Iron Fortress, in the tongue of her people, was the stronghold of no other but the White Wizard, Saruman. Was Sharkey working for him? What could the most powerful of the Istari want with such a biddable, simple creature as a halfling? As much as she loathed to agree, Ferny was right. She wasn’t one of Middle-earth’s most feared bounty hunters because of the goodness of her heart. If the hobbit had to die for her to sack the gold, then so be it. “I’m in,” she said.  


“Knew ye’d be cut out for it. Take the hobbit to Isengart— kickin’ and screamin’ if ya will— before the next full moon wanes and ye will get yer reward.”  


Eliana gave a sharp nod and rose before he could call for another round, throwing her pack over her shoulder. “You can have mine.” She pushed her pint toward him.  


“Good doin’ business with ya, dearie,” Ferny said between greedy gulps.

Wefting through the ruffians, the stench of unwashed bodies, blood and spoiled milk turned her stomach. When she stepped outside the tavern, she breathed in deeply through her nose. Ancient, warm earth, horses and rain-soaked wood. Her white mare—Ithilwen— stood under a gnarled oak, nibbling at the bark, white clouds of breath puffing from her nuzzle. 

“ _Gi suilon_ , good girl,” Eliana said softly in greeting as she petted the horse’s neck. She’d bought Ithilwen when she’d been but a foal, from a horse trader in Pelargir. A wild, elf-horse, not fit to ever be ridden, he’d claimed. Fifty years later, the mare was her only friend in this world. After she’d tightened the straps of her saddle back, she swung herself on her loyal mount. On horseback the journey through the Chetwood would take her three days, maybe two if she rode her hard. 

“ _Gwaem_.” Ithilwen whinnied and took off down the road, toward Bree. “ _Noro lim_.” The hunt had begun.


	2. Underhill

The gatekeeper did not stop Eliana when she rode into Bree, her horse’s hooves spraying unlucky townsfolk with ditchwater as the two of them sped down the flooded road.

Blinking the raindrops from her lashes, she glimpsed the sign to the Prancing Pony swinging from a wooden beam. Rain had pounded over her head for the entirety of her journey, drenching her down to her underthings. She was sure that if she were to pull off her boots and turn them over, a gush of water would pour forth like from a spring running down a ravine. Eliana didn’t bother tying Ithilwen to the post before entering the inn. The mare would always come if she called.

The common room was toasty, packed with travelers and locals alike. Barlinman Butterbur, the barrel-chested human innkeeper with the bristly, reddish beard and even redder cheeks, waved at her from behind the bar. They’d known each other ever since she’d stumbled into his inn one night as a young elf girl, barely 30 years of age, half-starved and bleeding from a run-in with a pack of wargs. Then, he’d still had all his hair, and many years and a dozen of patched-up arrow wounds and reset bones later, he’d developed somewhat fatherly feelings for the mysterious elven woman.

He waddled toward the table she’d sat down at, carrying a platter laden with creamy goat cheese, grapes, apples and freshly-baked, buttered rolls, which he set down in front of her. “Been a long time since I’ve seen ya around here, Ellie,” he said as a way of greeting. “What has been keepin’ ya for so long?”

“Work,” she said, her mouth full as she wolfed down the plate’s contents with a hunger one would put past such a fine-boned, slender thing like her.

“Nothin’ dangerous, I hope,” Butterbur joked, knowing full well that she wasn’t exactly earning her keep as a basket weaver. Giving her a conspirator’s smile, he asked, “What can ol’ Barlinman do for ya?”

Eliana popped some diced cheese into her mouth. “I’m looking for someone.”

“As yer always do.”

She thrust her butter knife into his face, grinning. “Don’t get snippy with me, old man. You remember the last time you had to mop off some miserable oaf off your floor.“

Butterbur shuddered, his beady eyes widened. “Ghastly business, that was. Although, I canna say I’m no’ glad yer did him in before he could hurt them lassies. Rapists ar no’ welcome in me tavern,” he said. A log cracked in the stone-bound fireplace. “What’s the fellow’s name?”

“A halfling by the name of Underhill. He must have come through here today. You know him?”

Butterbur shifted uneasily, dragging his feet. “I might have heard about someone like that.” He looked over his shoulder and nervously wiped his hands on his white apron. “He doona seem like a bad sort, though. Came in about an hour ago with three of them wee ones.” He nodded toward one of the tables near the wall. Eliana peered over his shoulder. Three hobbits with mops of bushy hair squatted in the corner. Heads lowered, they talked in hushed voices, throwing anxious looks around the common room. The tankards in front of them were almost half their size. The dark-haired one seemed to play with something in his pocket, turning it over and over in his hands.

That one must be Underhill. She could already hear the clink of a coin pouch being dropped into her awaiting palm.

“Thanks,” she said. “I owe you.”

The innkeeper fondly pinched her cheek. “No’ trouble, and eat yer food, lass. Yer getting skinnier each time I see ya.” With that he walked back behind his bar to serve the knot of men that had gathered around one of the hobbits.

“Sure I know a Baggins,” the halfling cried cheerily and pointed toward the dark-haired hobbit, who looked up fearfully. “He’s over there. Frodo Baggins. He’s my second cousin once removed from his mother’s side and—” Underhill had leaped out of his chair and sped toward his friend, grabbing him by the arm.

“Pippin!”

“Steady on!”

Stumbling over his own hairy feet, Underhill— or Frodo Baggins—fell to the ground, his fingers reaching for something. With her elf-eyes, Eliana saw a flash of glittering gold and then— nothing. Underhill had vanished, as if by magic.

Her fine hearing pricked. She shot to her feet just as a cloaked, tall figure crossed the room in two long strides and grabbed Baggins from underneath one of the tables by the scruff of his neck, dragging him up the stairs that led to the guest rooms.

She growled and pounced after them, her first instinct being to reach for her twin hunting knives and stab them into his eyeballs for kidnapping her hobbit. Low voices were coming from the room at the very back of the wood-paneled corridor. She was just about to press her ear against the door and listen in when— trampling like a horde of orcs— the other three hobbits rushed into the hallway, more or less effectively armed. One of them had plucked a candlestand from a table downstairs, holding it like a sword, another had grabbed a stool.

Eliana grinned to herself as she looked on from behind the curtains. What were they going to do? Hit the long fellow over the head with it?

“Let him go! Or I’ll have you Longshanks!” The pudgy hobbit cried and threateningly raised his trembling fists. Well, wasn’t that just darling?

“You have a stout heart, little hobbit, but that will not save you,” the man said. “You can no longer wait for the wizard Frodo. They’re coming.” He was handsome in a rugged, weather-beaten sort of way. His dark hair hung matted in his face and his leathers were even more shabby than hers. She leaned on her tip-toes to get a better glimpse at his face before the door fell shut behind him and the hobbits. He looked an awful lot like one of the rangers she’d met from time to time on her travels. Who was this Frodo Baggins that even reclusive folks such as rangers were after him? It couldn’t be because of the coin.

_Damn him_ , Eliana thought darkly, worrying her chapped lips as she slunk back down the stairs, into the inn’s common room. His involvements made matters infinitely more complicated. She picked the leftover apple from her plate and stalked outside, cursing him all the way to the stables, where Ithilwen had taken shelter from the rain.

“Why are humans such a bothersome bunch?” She sighed and wound her arms around the mare’s neck, burying her nose into the soft fur.

Suddenly, the mare’s ears snapped back. _Danger_. Eliana listened into the patter of rain, the restless chomping of hooves. The temperature had dropped, her breath clouding in front of her like cold smoke. Every muscle in her body went taunt as a drawn bow, when a shrill wail jarred the night. _A great evil_ , a voice that was not her own whispered in the back of her head.

One knife in each hand, Eliana crept to the edge of the stables. Nine riders flew past the stables, their cloaks flapping like great black wings as they headed for the darkened inn. Sneaking after them, she could only hope that the damned ranger had the presence of mind to lock his door.

She found Butterbur hunkering behind his bar, sniveling into a dishtowel. A bit at a loss with someone displaying such human emotions, she patted his back awkwardly. The footfall of heavy iron horsemen’s boots could be heard from above. Clouds of dust puffed through the floorboards. They were ransacking the place, taking it apart room by room.

Could she fight these foul creatures if it came to it? Her strengths lay in stealth. She was decent enough with her daggers, but she wouldn’t hold out long against nine blades.

Another unworldly scream. Definitely not human.

By the Valar, what had she gotten herself into?

* * *

 

The sun had not peaked over the western hills when Eliana woke up from the sound of loud munching. Blinking against the watery sunlight, she lifted her head from the snoring innkeeper’s shoulder, huddled against the pantry door, where they’d dozed off, and peeked over the bar counter.

The scruffy-looking human and the four, very talkative hobbits— the latter stuffing their little faces full with sausages and bread— were leaving the inn, frying pan, bed rolls and all.

_“Gwib_ ,” she swore under her breath and scrambled around the counter with a lack of grace that would have shamed her people, if they’d still given an orc’s arse about her.

Stealing a bundle of carrots for Ithilwen from the larder and a strip of bacon for herself, Eliana raced toward the stables, filling up her saddle bag.

The early morning mists were pressing down over Bree. The town looked peaceful, the only disturbance being the crashed gates, run down by the Black Riders. She would follow them at a safe distance and strike at night, when everybody was asleep, she decided. On foot—with a single, fat pony to carry their seasoning salts, or whatever they had packed in those huge bags—they could hardly outrun her.


End file.
